It's a Rough Road to Heroism
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Where Jimmy Palmer finds out that heroism is just a word, and what really matters is what you have on the inside. Ripe with the return of 'Little Gibbs', team bonding, and a hot gang case to solve! Mystery, suspense, and Caf Pows all around!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I am neither lucky, powerful, rich, or influential enough to own NCIS. If I did I certainly wouldn't be sitting around fantasying about it. (Ha! Who am I kidding, I still would!) But regardless, everything and everyone belongs to their respective studios, corporations, and companies. (God damnit!) And thus, I own nothing but my rabid plot bunnies and hopeless dreams, thank you very much!**

**Authors Note #1:** This has been one of those plot bunnies that has basically eaten my brain for close to three weeks. Sitting in the back corner of my mind and absolutely nagging to be told. Something that is really quite distracting when you are right in the middle of trying to finish a few other stories I might add. I am so so so sorry to those of you who are waiting on my other fics, but my muse is my master and I am as whipped as they come!

*I see this story as being able to fit in anywhere mid to end season 6 where you really get to notice how much Jimmy as a character has truly become a part of the team. He is not just Ducky's assistant anymore and you see him getting more prominent story lines and more integration with all the team characters. (Seasons 5&6 put me in my happy place for that let me tell you!)

**Warnings:** Violence, a bit of gore and language. Spoilers: Anything up to the end of season six is fair game in my opinion, so count yourselves as warned. But really, nothing hugely specific other then the little tid-bits of trivia throughout and of course for the Season Five episode: "About Face." The famed 'Jimmy' episode, which obviously I totally adore!

**Authors Note #2:** Unlike in a Zoo, please feel free to feed the author! Your reviews not only give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, but they also help me improve myself. Not to mention this is my first foray into NCIS fanfiction. So yes, please read and review.

**It's a Rough Road****to Heroism**

**Chapter One – _Prologue_**

"_**Is there a hero somewhere, someone who appears and saves the day? Someone who holds out a hand and turns back time?"**_

_**A few long hours previous...**_

It was late afternoon, with the sun laying low and stagnant on the horizon. It was the point in the day where the sun seemed to halt, pausing on the skyline and seeming to hold itself there for hours as the gradually dying day sucked back the sunlight. Only today it seemed to hang on longer, making one wonder if Helious himself had blown a chariot wheel halfway across the horizon, stopping the sun in it's tracks.

And if the Greek charioteer had cared to look down, he just might have seen a tall, red haired man, his arms laden with take out bags, and a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, his hair such a fiery red color that it could even rival the brilliance of a solar flare. It was a brilliant mess of striking auburn reds that showed the promise of curls despite his regulation style haircut.

Though obliviously a natural red head, the man literally embodied the ideal of what a true marine should be. He was young, well dressed, and well built, with a solid, muscled torso and well defined arms, his hair was cropped short in the usual military fashion, and he even sported a small but tasteful regimental tattoo on his right forearm.

His mere presence was intimidating, but yet at the same time he was one of those people that even a stranger could safely coin as a non-violent man at heart… It was his eyes, calm and sparkling with good humour, and the way he held himself that gave him away, his tread careful and soft-footed, as though he was perpetually concerned about accidentally stepping on someone, or something.

There was a definite quickness to his pace as he strode down the deserted sidewalk, a smitten grin on his lips as he balanced the two bags of Chinese take out and a brown paper bag in his grip, the long neck of the smoky glass giving away the identity of the expensive _Cuvee Louise Brut_ champagne. Anyone and their uncle could tell that the man had it bad.

He took a left at the last intersection towards what seemed like endless row of warehouses leading towards the wharves. Shifting the duffel bag over to his other shoulder he looked left and right before passing through a few questionable looking alley ways as a short cut, his steps growing faster as he moved through the darkening afternoon shadows, dodging piles of industrial waste and mouldering trash bags, his nose wrinkling slightly as the smell hit him.

He was nearly out of the last alley way when his cell phone rang, the cheerful jingle sounding eerie in the near silence. Juggling bags he somehow twisted himself enough to reach into his service jacket, and pull out his ringing cell, his brilliant green eyes lighting up when he saw who was calling.

What he didn't see however was that the shadows behind him were now slowly moving. At the opposite end of the alley way three men had materialized from under the rusted overhang of an abandoned warehouse.

They were the kind of sort that just screamed trouble, decked out in ragged motorcycle leathers, heavy boots and dirty wife-beater tees. However despite their relative similarities in dress, they were all different in the way they held themselves, with each man inadvertently belaying his own standing through body language alone.

The dark haired one who took up the rear of the group was so green you could almost smell it. He was nervous, jumpy, and far too trigger happy, edging forward every few seconds as though he had springs attached to his toes.

The second from the lead sported a buzz cut and a mean look, standing close to the leader, alert to his every move, his experience all too apparent in the way his hands smoothed down the barrel of his berretta, and how he eyed the back of the red haired man with a calculating, and almost predatory glare.

But it was the man in front that was clearly dominant; it wasn't just his imposing, six foot frame, and football player shoulders. Nor was it his shaved head, his scalp and neck peppered with a mess of ugly red scars... it was his eyes. They were ice cold and unfathomably dark, the kind of eyes that truly put a chill down your spine, holding no mercy, warmth nor kindness in their black depths.

There was only one thing however that truly stood out between all three men other then their clothes and hard looks. It was the cruel looking tattoo that stood out on their necks like an angry brand. It was clearly a gang tattoo, but professionally done, inked in the design of a crimson upside down cross, and set in the imprint of a black hand.

Without speaking the leader turned around, setting the second with a steady stare and a barely discernable tilt of his chin, the action causing the second man to return the gesture as he used the hem of his shirt to muffle the click of his guns safety. The smallest one however was far mouthier and insolent.

"Are you sure?" He demanded aloofly, his voice going high pitched as his words gradually died off when fixed with the hard line of the second man's mouth. The leader, still partially obscured in the shadows only flicked his eyes towards the third man in irritation before gesturing towards the occupied marine with the butt of his gun.

"Take his dog tags for proof of the kill." He growled in way of reply, setting his cold stare on the younger man until he nodded, shifting nervously where he stood, unable to meet his leader's cold, calculating stare.

Operating in near whispers and crude hand signals they advanced from behind, all three surprisingly silent footed despite their heavy steel toed boots. But apparently not quiet enough, because for some reason, the red haired man suddenly stiffened, his voice cutting out in mid- sentence as he whirled around, his eyes widening as he took in the situation, assessing his options and what he was up against in a matter of mere seconds. And the faint laugh lines around his mouth tightened into a grimace as he fully realized his situation.

The phone lowered from his ear slowly, even as the person on the other end called his name questioningly, the tone turning worried and suddenly going silent when he finally spoke, directing his question to the lead man.

"What do you want? I have nothing worth stealing." He finally managed, his voice sounding much more calm and confident then he felt as he licked his bottom lip, taking a measured step backwards at the same moment.

But from the men advancing on him, he got no reply, only a menacing look as the two men behind him fanned out at his sides until he was looking down the barrels of three nasty looking guns. If he could have spared the breath he would have cursed.

He knew then that there was no getting out of this one. These men weren't just some punks out for wallets and Rolexes, these were professionals, and likely part of a gang if the matching tattoos were any indication.

He was only just wondering what the hell they wanted with him when the light bulb finally switched on in his mind, with flashes from the small snatches of news reports he had caught over the last few weeks running through his mind. Images of over a half a dozen dead marines raced through his mind, each one shot and beaten to death, their dog tags ripped brutally from their necks. Men, women, officers, sergeants, gunnys... men and women from every rank, all Marines, and all seemingly selected at random. Each victim had been followed from their respective bases and navy yards before they were attacked.

NCIS had been remaining relatively close-lipped about the investigation, but base-wide scuttlebutt rumoured that they were closing in on a strong lead. But the attackers were like ghosts. They had never been caught, and there were never any witnesses, never any traceable DNA or prints.

'_Oh god.' _He thought, a cold sweat breaking out the back of his neck, panic starting to bubble in his breast.

But all that vanished when the abrupt metallic clatter of his cell phone meeting the concrete reached in his ears, the sound somehow grounding him, bringing him back to reality and pushing down his panic as his military training came rushing back to him.

His eyes darted around, taking in the abandoned area, there were no cars, no people, no help, and no weapon save for the bottle of champagne he still held. _He didn't even have his god damn boot knife. _He was on his own. All he had was himself and his balls, and if he wanted to survive this he knew he had to get his head on straight. _Come on Marine! Concentrate! Think! Act! Now!_

In one quick move, the red haired marine swung around, pivoting on his heel as the take out bags fell to the pavement with an audible wet splat, swinging the duffle bag from his shoulder as he moved and whipping it at the men as he ran, his hand slapping to his hip, automatically searching for a gun and holster that was not there.

His move caught his attackers by surprise, and as he streaked across the road like a red-haired rocket, they cursed and gave chase, running after him as their long-legged prey weaved and ducked as he ran for the water front, still gripping the bottle of champagne by the neck like some strange sort of glass club as he moved, intentionally giving them a harder target to aim at.

But as fast as the marine was, he was out numbered and the leader was experienced, watching until he saw his opening before dropping to one knee as the man weaved into his sights, aiming down the nose of his colt and firing, the noise muted to a small pop with the aid of his silencer.

The first shot missed by mere inches, chipping out a spray of concrete right beside him, causing the man to tuck and roll to the right, skidding on a slimy patch on the pavement as he regained his footing. But those mere seconds were more damaging then he could have ever realized, giving the leader time to get his sights set on him again.

This time the shot did not miss, bringing the marine down in a crumpled heap as the bullet embedded itself in his left thigh. Despite his strangled cry of pain and surprise, the man tried to regain his footing, desperate now, hearing the thudding footfalls of his attacker's only meters behind. But his leg refused to hold his weight and he fell again, scrambling on the ground as he half crawled away from his attackers.

All three men surrounded him; the youngest man crowing victoriously as the leader viciously kicked the fallen man in the gut, the force of the kick throwing him flat on his back, as he tried to hunch into himself in pain. The leader stepped back then, reaching into his pocket for a polishing cloth as he nonchalantly set about cleaning the barrel of his gun, eyeing it closely as he wiped it down almost lovingly.

With a desperate snarl the marine lashed out with the bottle, grunting in pain as he shuffled backwards, crab-like across the filthy pavement, trying to stay out of reach of the other men's eager fists and feet.

But he couldn't hold them off, and they descended like a pack of vicious animals, cursing and taunting him as they beat him, pummelling him until he was barely hanging on, blackness spotting his vision as unconsciousness rushed forward, his limbs turning limp and weak, causing him to jerk and flop about like a rag doll as each kick and fist shook his broken body.

And if he could have heard anything above his grunts of pain, and the thudding sound of their limbs meeting his flesh, he might have heard the heart breaking crash as the bottle of _Cuvee Louise Brut_ hit the ground, kicked from his hand and shattering on the ground in a hundred glittering pieces, the liquid gurgling mournfully as it spread across the pavement.

_The sound of the bottle breaking echoed across the deserted lot much like the sound of the last desperate charge at a battles end. One where the loosing side knows that defeat is on the horizon but still refuses to give up without one more roar, one more defiant sound in the face of death, showing their teeth before the lights go dark and the death comes to claim them._

But then, just as he was kicked onto his stomach, a boot heel grinding into his rib cage, only disconnectedly feeling the shuddering crack as one of his ribs snapped, by chance he looked up, his eyes flickering to the nearest alleyway and towards one of the most surreal sights of his entire life....

The last thing he saw before unconsciousness washed over him, was the vision of a man barrelling towards him, his black cap emblazoned with the letters: _NCIS, _his mouth open in a yell that his ears could no longer hear, he could only watch as the man's mouth worked, his circular glasses glinting in the last rays of sunshine as his hands went for the unidentifiable shape at his hip.

The beatings suddenly ceased as his attackers turned their attention to this new threat, a man outlined in starbursts of color as his failing eyes vainly tried to see, trying to look through the encompassing darkness that was bleeding steadily into his vision.

And just as he slipped into unconsciousness, the world falling away with a percussive roar that followed him into the darkness, he watched as the man skidded in front of him, the abruptness of the motion spraying droplets of the spilled champagne across his lips as the man launched himself over him and at the second man with a wild, broken off yell that would have scared the pants off a better man then him, likely even his hard-ass CEO if he had heard it...

_And then, mercifully, there was only darkness..._

**A/N #1:** Well I am not sure how in demand this story will be so I will stop it here and depending on the reviews if people want see more I will decide whether or not to continue! **Remember this is just the prologue; the real action begins in the next chapter.**

**A/N #2:** Chapter title taken from lyrics from the Poets of the Fall's song: "Looking at the sun."

**A/N #3:** ***Glossary** for the two reference points: (Because lets face it, we all can't be as smart as Jimmy and Ducky!)

Helious: The Greek god said to ride out in the morning with the sun attached to his chariot to bring forth the day and ride back with it at sunset to make way for the night.

Cuvee Louise Brut: One of the top ten most prestigious champagnes. Produced by Pommery and generally aged from 1998. Cost: Around $185 smackers.. (Ouch)


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: I am neither lucky, powerful, rich, or influential enough to own NCIS. If I did I certainly wouldn't be sitting around fantasying about it. (Ha! Who am I kidding, I still would!) But regardless, everything and everyone belongs to their respective studio's, corporations, and companies. (God damnit!) And thus, I own nothing but my rabid plot bunnies and hopeless dreams, thank you very much!**_

**Authors Note #1:** This has been one of those plot bunnies that has basically eaten my brain for close to three weeks. Sitting in the back corner of my mind and absolutely nagging to be told. Something that is really quite distracting when you are right in the middle of trying to finish a few other stories I might add. I am so so so sorry to those of you waiting on my other fics, but my muse is my master and I am as whipped as they come!

*I see this story as being able to fit in anywhere mid to end season 6 where you really get to notice how much Jimmy as a character has truly become a part of the team. He is not just Ducky's assistant anymore and you see him getting more prominent story lines and more integration with all the team characters. (Seasons 5 & 6 put me in my happy place for that let me tell you!)

**Warnings:** Violence, a bit of gore and language. Spoilers: Anything up to the end of season six is fair game in my opinion, so count yourselves as warned. But really, nothing hugely specific other then the little tid-bits of trivia throughout and of course for the Season Five episode: "About Face." The famed 'Jimmy' episode. (Which obviously I totally adore)

**Authors Note #2:** Unlike in a Zoo, please feel free to feed the author! Your reviews not only give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, but they also help me improve myself. Not to mention this is my first foray into NCIS fanfiction. So yes, please read and review.

**It's a Rough Road****to Heroism**

**Chapter Two - "**_**Gotta take every chance to, show that you're the kinda man who....Will never look back, never look down, ...and never let go**_."

_**...Present...**_

The first thing he became aware of was the blood. He felt it first before the pain, before the chill of the concrete wall at his back crept into his bones, and before the discomfort of his cramped, splayed-legged position brought an ache to thrum through his calves.

_Blood_. His body knew the word before his mind had even begun to pull itself from the depths of peaceful, unfeeling oblivion. It was a roaring rush that echoed in his ears, singing in it's horrible staccato melody as it met with the open air, pattering and rippling as it made its way to the ground.

He had come to realize throughout the years, that the body always sang, it had it's own unique melody and ever changing rhythm... but it is it's audience was that is rarely attentive, with it's rhythms and beats often going unnoticed and unappreciated.

He could feel it slicking his skin, feel the drying catch of it as it rubbed against his clothes. He could even detect the slow and steady splatter of it as it leaked through the bandages, peppering his arms and thighs with crimson.

But then, all too suddenly, everything returned in a rush. 'Oh god..' He whimpered wordlessly, clutching at his side as his body quaked in pain. Coughing violently, he doubled over where he sat, the movement sending pain lancing through his entire body. Fighting to stay conscious he remained slumped over, his head bowed as he sucked in painful lungful of air, feeling as though he were breathing in glass shards, not even noticing the steady dribble of blood that left his lips as he fought for air.

Still coughing, he eased himself back against the side of the building, feeling the spaces between each brick through the thin material of shirt. Blinking back spots of color he wiped at the corner of his mouth with his hand, expecting salvia until the skin came back red.

'Oh damn... Jimmy, what have you gotten yourself into this time?' He thought with a sort of wry amusement, unable to let himself despair completely as he eyed the bloody smear, a hallmark of his problems. But he found he couldn't help but smile as something occurred to him. Ironically, just this past week Tony had casually told him that red wasn't his best color... _No kidding._

_Blood._ Blood was something unavoidable in his profession, whether at a crime scene, or on the autopsy table. Blood, body parts, bones, organs..skin...even the occasional maggot or bow fly. It all came part and parcel with the job. And being anything but a squeamish person, he usually paid no attention to the whole process, coming out of autopsy and even on the odd time a particularly messy crime scene covered in blood and god knows what other bodily fluids. To him it was simply part of the job. But this..this time it was somewhat different.

God knows he had heard enough about the various injuries Doctor Mallard had received in his travels and adventures throughout his life, whether in the service of his country, profession...or even in accidents that occurred as the result of his admittedly rambunctious and indomitable spirit.

He himself had had his fair share of small injuries, but _nothing_ compared to _this_. Because now he could smell it..he could detect the faintest tang of bitter iron in the air, sensing the thick musk of blood as it rose sluggishly to his nostrils. And of course, there was the depressingly unavoidable fact that came with the knowledge of knowing that it was mostly his. _Sometimes_ _consciousness is highly overrated..._

Working his jaw tentatively, he moved his tongue around his mouth, trying to ignore the strange feeling of swollen skin all around as he checked to make sure all his teeth were still there, feeling slightly better when he discovered they were all accounted for. _Lucky. _

Experimentally he wet his lips, swallowing a mouthful of phylum-like salvia as he tested out his voice, cautiously taking stock of his injuries. '_Might as well take things one step at the time Jimmy...It isn't as if you are going moving anytime soon anyway..' _He thought silently, groaning aloud as his head throbbed menacingly in response.

"Patient suffers from a gunshot wound to the right torso. The projectile missed the right lung by only a mere six centimetres. Lucky. Probably only a flesh wound, soft tissue damage at most." He began, pausing slightly as he shifted in place, unable to quell a pained exclamation as he delicately probed at his back, searching for any sign of an exit wound.

"The bullet left what seems to be a clear exit path. A classic case of Ballistic trauma." He theorized professionally, as if he were in autopsy and giving his diagnosis to Doctor Mallard like it was any other day, only this time his voice had turned into a harsh phylum-clogged gurgle, forcing him to cough to clear it, hacking until he spat out a mouthful of thick ropey salvia, the color tinged a worrisome red.

_'Well that can't be good...'_ He thought worriedly, his eyes casting in all directions as he attempted to ignore the pain building behind his eyes, wiping away the damning evidence on his already sodden pant leg.

_'Hemptysis...'_ His brain snidely supplied, coming across as more nagging then helpful, and he wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but he could have sworn his own mind was mocking him.

_'God...What was wrong with him?'_ He wondered. His whole brain throbbed, seeming to pulsate in time with his racing pulse and he had the strangest sensation that he was floating inside his own skin. As if that paper thin layer was the only thing keeping him there. _Keeping him grounded._

Maybe he was more far gone then he had originally thought? No...No...there was no Hematemesis yet, so the bullet couldn't have nicked a lung or the stomach cavity...He would have known by now. Besides...if it had punctured a lung he would have likely never regained consciousness.

However, despite this, that didn't mean that there wasn't something equally as worrisome brewing. Moving with the utmost caution he sucked in an unsteady breath as he gently loosened the make-shift bandages around his middle, crying out softly as the material stuck painfully to the mutilated skin, causing fresh hot blood to well up and over his fingers as he checked the wound. Forcing himself to focus, he eyed it professionally, looking for any sign that the blood was beginning to clot.

Swearing softly he slump back, closing his eyes in exhaustion for a long moment until the darkness behind his lids became too unnerving and he opened them again. He could see no signs of clotting.. at least not in any significant amounts that would be helpful to him at any rate.

_'Well, one thing was for sure, today was not the best day to go out and buy a lottery ticket.' He thought with more then a touch of sarcasm. He wasn't even sure he still had his wallet anyway.._

'Damn!' He hissed angrily, steeling himself from moving as he examined the wound balefully. As it was the material he had been using to stop the wound had nearly soaked through, he needed medical attention now!

If not, he knew it was very possible that he might die of exsanguination... Already he knew he was experiencing the symptoms of serious blood loss. Dizziness, weakness, confusion, erratic pulse, ...trouble breathing.. slipping in and out of consciousness. It was all there, just like the lists in his medical text books.

He could even recall his introductory course on the circulatory system in his first year of medical school, remembering his professors exact words as he had droned on, apparently not bothered in the slightest that he had already put half the class in a near comatose state after the first ten minutes of his lecture.

_'When blood is lost, the body's tissues cannot get enough oxygen. This inevitably leads to tissue and organ damage. However if too much blood volume in the body is lost, circulatory shock will occur. And if left untreated, this condition can be fatal. Near the end such sufferers simply lapse off into unconsciousness and die.'_ Good thing he had actually paid attention in Professor Duberiuo's class...

Carefully retying the bandages, he cut off a strangled screamed as he forced himself to tighten it further around the wound, fighting his rebelling gut as pain lanced through his body. Grimacing he rested his head against the rough brick, letting the chill of the stone seep into his skin as he fought the urge to pass out, his body remaining hyper sensitive to his every movement, with even breathing now causing a hitch of pain with every breath.

_'God..I wish Doctor Mallard was here...' _He thought with regret as a confused image of the kindly mortician flashed in his mind. It was a memory of earlier that day, when he had watched with amusement as the elder man had gestured grandly with a scalpel as he detailed his report to Agent Gibbs, the ghost of a smile playing on the silver-haired man's face as he watched the doctor with barely concealed amusement. It was like an image captured in time..But how long ago was that? Morning? Mid afternoon? Night? ...He couldn't remember..

The blood was warm, welling up heated from the depth of the wound like an overflowing pond. He couldn't help but watch with morbid interest as it slowly trickled down his skin, separating from the main wound to trail downwards as gravity demanded, channelling off into separate streams of dark red until it had coloured his lightly tanned torso in a sheen of crimson. Abby would have liked that.

Well... maybe not so much as him bleeding, but he was sure that she would have appreciated the general affect of the image. Maybe she would put a picture of it on her wall? She hadn't changed the pictures in there for a while, at least not since Agent Gibbs had returned from his short lived retirement.

Maybe he would do something with the scar...A bullet wound like this was likely to make a pretty noticeable scar. He knew Tony would certainly say, in his words that 'chicks dig scars'...and actually, come to think of it, Doctor Mallard might even say the same as well, just in many more words and probably an interesting story about one of his own to boot.

Maybe he would finally let Abby convince him to get a tattoo to cover it? She'd like that.. One of his friends from Medical school had gotten one to cover his appendicitis incision; maybe he could do the same... Either way Abby was pretty hard to refuse, sometimes he had to wonder if there was _anyone_ who actually knew Abby that _wasn't_ walking around without some sort of inked artwork.

_'Good thing you didn't get shot in the ass then..' _He thought with an inward grin, feeling as though he might as well look on the lighter side of things. _'There would have been no living with any of them after that!' _He smirked, the thought alone would have made him chuckle if he could have spared the breath.

With what seemed like supreme effort he raised his eyes from his lap. He had lost his glasses he realized slowly, taking in the blurred edges that now encroached on his vision with the resignation of one used to a life of near sightedness. It was dark, and he vaguely remembered thinking that it seemed far to early for the sun to have set completely..._'It wasn't that late already...was it?'_

His thoughts ran rampant, jumping from one thought to another, switching subjects and dwelling on the most random and strangest things that the physician in him knew he was close to hallucinating. _He needed help!_ But yet he could find no will left in him to tame his mind, with confusion and a growing sense of lax exhaustion tempting him back to unconsciousness.

The thought alone was akin to an electrical shock. _'No!'_ He mentally cried, if he knew one thing... if he remembered one thing correctly then he knew that despite what his body and brain were crying for, he knew that falling asleep was a grave mistake. No matter how much...how very much he wanted it...

The left side of his head and face felt taunt and numb, and when he reached up to touch it, his hand came away sticky with half dried blood, the action causing a small cascade of red flakes to shower down from his messy curls, his NCIS cap seemingly long lost to the darkness.

"Head wound, blow to the right temple, likely causing a concussion which resulted in the patients lapse into unconsciousness, and inability to think clearly." He added fastidiously, the act of reciting the words aloud seeming somehow important and meaningful. As if it really _wasn't_ him lying here in this cold alley way, as though it was someone else slowly staining the pavement red.

'Oh nice.. way to think positive Jimmy!' He snarked inwardly, shaking his head in self disgust, but immediately regretting it as his head throbbed angrily. _Karma_. He had never been one to complain about things, or bemoan his lot in life..so there was no reason to start now!

'Besides..' He thought with a wry grin. 'That would be stealing Tony's spot light anyways..' He chuckled with a liquidity gurgle.

And this time he was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the fresh trickle of blood his laugh had brought forth, slowly rolling down from of the corner of his mouth, rouging his lips in a horrid mockery of the image of the sated lover, lips love bitten and red...

Only he was lying alone in this dank, stinking alley way, his lips swollen and blood smeared, as his body leaked blood across the filthy concrete..._Waiting.._

**A/N #1:** Well I am not sure how in demand this story will be so I will stop it here and depending on the reviews if people want see more I will decide whether or not to continue!

**A/N #2:** Chapter title is lyrics from Brain Adams song: "Never let go".

**A/N:** ***Glossary** for a bunch of medical terms that will be in the first and second chapters (Because lets face it, we all can't be as smart as Jimmy and Ducky!) ---(I am too lazy to separate them all out per chapter because I have edited this section enough today!) :

Ballistic trauma: Caused by a projectile weapon, this may include two external wounds (entry and exit) and a contiguous wound between the two.

Hempotysis: Coughing up blood from the lungs.

Hematemesis: The vomiting of fresh blood.

Exsanguination: Basically the act of bleeding to death.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I am neither lucky, powerful, rich, or influential enough to own NCIS. If I did I certainly wouldn't be sitting around fantasying about it. (Ha! Who am I kidding, I still would!) But regardless, everything and everyone belongs to their respective studio's, corporations, and companies. (God damnit!) And thus, I own nothing but my rabid plot bunnies and hopeless dreams, thank you very much!

**Authors Note #1:** This has been one of those plot bunnies that has basically eaten my brain for close to three weeks. Sitting in the back corner of my mind and absolutely nagging to be told. Something that is really quite distracting when you are right in the middle of trying to finish a few other stories I might add.

**Warnings:** Violence, a bit of gore and language. Spoilers: Anything up to the end of season six is fair game in my opinion, so count yourselves as warned. But really, nothing hugely specific other then for Season Five episode: "About Face." The famed 'Jimmy' episode.

**Authors Note #2:** Unlike in a Zoo, please feel free to feed the author! Your reviews not only give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, but they also help me improve myself. Not to mention this is my first forray into NCIS fanfiction. So yes, please read and review.

**It's a Rough Road****to Heroism**

**Chapter Three - "_Can you lay your life down, so a stranger can live?...  
Can you take what you need, but take less than you give?"_**

The words 'head trauma' and 'external bleeding' bounced around in his brain like a captured frog in a glass jar, with the very thought alone causing his head to throb and pound. There was something he was forgetting...he knew it. What had he missed? A good physician NEVER misses a thing in a diagnosis, and Doctor Mallard certainly wouldn't be pleased if he were to miss something! Maybe there was nothing else wrong at all and his concussion had simply addled his brain into thinking there was? Right...wrong...he couldn't tell the difference anymore.

Confusion rolled over him in cloyingly suffocating waves. Nothing was clear, everything was going fuzzy around the edges, he couldn't even hear the chirping of the crickets anymore...though he had to admit he couldn't have told anyone when they had actually started either...

He shivered violently, the concrete suddenly all too frigid against his back. 'Oh right...' He murmured in soft, unsteady triumph, suddenly remembering he had taken off his jacket sometime earlier to fashion a torso-style tourniquet, stemming the bleeding from the gunshot wound on his side, leaving him in only his thin dress shirt as the temperatures began to drop with the encroaching night.

_'Well...if he were to look on the bright side of this news, at least he could say he had actually remembered that much!' _He thought sardonically.

Squinting into the darkness he rallied himself to focus on his surroundings. _'Come on Jimmy, where are you? Focus! Do you think a gunshot wound and a concussion would stop Agent Gibbs? No! The guy was like the Terminator; he had been blown up for Christ sakes and had still recovered!'_ _'What's a little bullet and bump on the head compared to that?' _He thought to himself wonderingly as he turned his head minutely to survey the area to his right.

Slowly and with great effort he pieced together the blurred images. He was near the end of a narrow, filthy alleyway, the space barely two meters across, wedged in between the hard, brick building that he was leaning against and the plain white-washed concrete of the building next to him. There was a pile of long abandoned garbage bags beside him, their bulk partially shielding him from view of the street, lest anyone actually venture into the dank alley. The rotten, sickly sour smell of mouldering food and decomposing fruits and vegetables had long since ceased to offend his senses, he just couldn't find the energy anymore.

He strained to hear over the sound of his heart thudding sluggishly in his ears the throbbing tempo of his aching head echoing in kind as it resounded through his brain like drum beats. He couldn't hear anything, not the casual strains of distant conversation, nor even the muted roar of traffic. Nothing. He was alone. _Alone..._

The realization slowly dawned on him. No people, no traffic...He was in an obscure part of town and it was nearly pitch black. He was seriously injured and he had no way of calling for help, his cell phone inexplicably missing while his memory still refused to fill in the alarming gaps..the missing pieces that he led him here. _'Jesus...' _He breathed harshly, mind momentarily blank as he stared at the dirty smudge of wall in front of him, as if he could will the answers to appear. But the dirty white-washed wall revealed only empty space. _Giving him _nothing_._

He vainly fought down the beginnings of a panic attack, but ended up doubled over as the schooled, even breaths he forced himself to take nearly made him choke on his own spit, the saliva made thick with blood and phlegm.

His lips were dry so he moved to wet them, only just noticing that they were swollen and cracking on one side. Running a tongue across them, unconsciously counting his teeth as he did so, making sure they were all still there. _Lucky._ Gradually he forced his jaw to move, experimentally forming the words before his own voice returned, it was thick, pained, and unsteady but it was his own.

"Help...Help!" He coughed, his voice barely echoing through the alley despite his efforts to raise it, ignoring as best he could the screaming pain that lanced through his side as he forced more air into his lungs.

"Help! Is anyone there?! Please!" He shouted, groaning as the echoes raced back to taunt him, There was nothing, no reply..not even a sound. All he could hear was his own uneven breathing. No one could hear him..._Oh god_..

No one was here..no one was coming...no one likely even knew he was missing... He had left work late, finishing up just as the night time janitors slowly started to trickle in...even Doctor Mallard had gone home before him, off to visit his mother at the rest home. In fact he had encouraged it. Knowing how much the kindly coroner had been missing her, he had convinced the man to leave him to finish up the last few details of the final autopsy so excited about the prospect of getting the opportunity to get some hands on experience with such a prominent case that he nearly propelled the man out the door. Sometimes even he enjoyed the relatively silence that descended in the mans absence.

It gave him time to think. Time to enjoy the challenge that came when one worked unaided and unwatched. _Unjudged._

A testament to how late the hour was full realized when he had swung up to the main floor, idly thinking of saying goodnight to the others before he left, only to find it deserted save for a few of the new, over-achievers burning the midnight oil as they went over cold cases. Even Agent Gibbs and Tony had packed it up for the day.

In fact, out of all of them, only Abby remained, holed up down in her lab with enough DNA and ballistic samples to sink a ship, and a long night ahead of her as she clocked in a serious amount of overtime to help solve the gang case they were all working on. A case that the other NCIS agents had secretly dubbed as the '_TBBN'_, short for _'The Big Bastards Nightmare', _in honour of Agent Gibbs who had been even more...brusque then usual.

The case had nearly consumed the entire agency and everyone was looking to Gibbs and the team to solve it. _Expecting it._ But as the bodies kept stacking up, with no solid leads panning out, the tension, anger, and guilt that had originally excluded from the Bull pen had simply enveloped them all, affecting everyone with its oppressive, smothering fog. Even he had not been immune, unable to suppress the frustration and helplessness he felt as he would slide yet another body into cold storage. _Pretty soon they were going to run out of space._

Feeling guilty at leaving while she was so bogged under with work, he had swiftly stepped out and bought her an economy sized CAF-POW. He had still been blushing nearly a half an hour later at her over enthusiastic praise and a warm hug, slurping at it with gusto as she waved him off, turning back to her evidence with new caffeine powered enthusiasm.

As everyone in NCIS eventually learned: _A happy Abby was a caffeinated Abby. And if there was no 'Happy Abby' then eventually everyone was miserable, especially Agent Gibbs. And if that happened, well, like they say in show business: "It's curtains."_

Scrabbling at the wall, he tried to gain enough leverage to lift himself to his feet, mindless of the dangers of moving..or from whatever might still lurk in the darkness around him. His weakening arms shook with the effort, his legs refusing to respond, his side screaming, he bit his lip so hard trying to school the pain that he tasted iron.

He had to help himself now! It would be what Gibbs and Tony would do..what Ziva and Abby and Tim would do as well. They wouldn't just sit here and do nothing! He couldn't wait on rescue, or even discovery.

_He wouldn't take this sitting down! He wouldn't! He was better then that! Stronger then that! He knew it..._

He managed to raise himself a few inches before his legs gave way completely, bucking like a house of cards and sending him sprawling across the pile of mouldering garbage bags, his pained scream echoing throughout the alleyway as the scent of decay rose ripe in his nostrils.

With what felt like phenomenal effort he lifted his head from the crook of his arm, the moist imprint of his mouth clearly outlined against his shirt from where he had tried to muffle his cry of pain. But the sight he saw as he looked down the narrow alleyway was not the scene he knew had been there mere seconds ago...

Things were coming back to him in flashes, roaring through his brain like a freight train that had broken its emergency break and was now careening out of control, barely staying on the rails. _That's what he felt like. Like he was barely staying on the rails, barely hanging on._

He saw the alley again in his mind, but this time the air was shot with beams of the dying sun, leftovers from the sunset that had flooded the sky a reddish pink not and an hour previous. He remembered stumbling, sliding across the pavement and skidding in the gravel, he remembered the echoed shouts, the yells, the feeling of the sudden bruising force that only came when one body collided with another, fleshy steel meeting fleshy steel, and then the meaty thunk, and whip-like breeze that signalled the motion of a body hitting the ground...

_The resulting tremor seemed to vibrated up through the ground and into his feet. Climbing his bones. Even remembering it put his teeth on edge.._

He didn't remember hearing the gunshot, but he remembered the impact. He remembered the way it had thrown him backwards, slamming his body into an electrical pole with the sheer force of it all. He remembered how it had taken a few long seconds for the pain to start, as if it had overloaded his nervous system to the point where even his nerves and pain receptors had frozen. _It was too much.._

Reeling from the mental onslaught he could only just make out the weak, unsteady masculine voice that echoed around him after his body met with the pole, he remembered a startling shock of red hair, but the man was faceless, nameless. However, unlike the other wordless, and violent noises that ran though his mind, this one came to him as different, the words lost as his body failed, but the sound that remained...he couldn't quite explain it, but it was not like the others, not threatening or harsh...the sound of an ally?

_..Wait...no..he had seen this man before... But where? When? ...How? _The answer was there, half hidden in the dark shadows of his failing brain. _Think!_ And somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that this was vitally important...

But then it didn't matter..suddenly the red haired blot in his vision disappeared. And then, all he remembered was the panic, the need to get away, to escape! The chase! They were after him! They were going to kill him! Run....run....run...RUN!

And that was all, the escape...the bloody, violent, animalistic chase where all posterity and humanity was forgotten and all that was left was survival. _He had never experienced the like..._ He didn't even know he could run so fast.. or move with such agility, even considering the hole in his side. All conscious thought left him, abandoning him to his baser instincts, _fear...anger....the need to survive...._the ones that knew how to keep his body functioning even when most of his highly prized human thought thinned out and disappeared like the last vestiges of the early morning fog.

He was left scrabbling in the dirt and slamming against buildings and trash cans, his limbs slipping in the mud as he stumbled and fell again and again with a weakening body shot full with adrenaline and a heavy nine millimetre hollow point slug.

_'Run..Run.... Hide! Escape! Now! Go! Go! Now! Get away! Now!' _It was like a chant inside his head, endless and loud until he could hardly even hear the sound of his own pained breathing, his own grunts and harsh breaths, or the grating fleshy sound of his skin meeting the brick and concrete as he ran, veering and falling everywhere.

He couldn't see! Blood flowed over his vision, blinding him as he wrenched himself up from his half crouched position, crawling almost crab-like through a gap in a chain link fence, feeling rather then hearing the back of his jacket rip where the jagged metal grabbed it.

Clutching at his side he dove for the first opening he came to, an alleyway to his right. _It was all down to running now, and god did he run. _Slipping through a slime encrusted puddle he ducked into a mass graveyard of rusting iron drums, flitting through the narrow spaces between them as he moved, nearly folding himself backwards as he slammed into a uniformed cluster of them, barely keeping his balance as he wrenched himself sideways, the wet slap of his bloody hands against the empty metal tolling out like the bell that foretells the slice of the executioners axe.

_He wasn't even thinking anymore, he was just running...escaping. He knew that there was a hole in his side, and his head felt like it had been knocked around by something about as subtle as a rampaging cement mixer, and that the bad guys were chasing him. AGAIN..._

But other then that there was no escape plan..no plan b...no nothing! His mind screamed at him to hide, to get away, to fight, to duck, to stop, to go...until he couldn't do anything _but _tear his way through the endless alleyways. _He had to get away!_

Falling he slid to his knees as he barely made it around corner. The smell of the sea assaulting his senses as a strong breeze whipped down the alley beside him, blinding him with dirt and dust as leaves and bits of trash swirled around his feet, caught in tiny whirl winds of their own as he scraped past.

Then, all he could hear was the ear shattering roar of a motor cycle, the taunting yells and harsh words weaving in together with the slamming footfalls of heavy-booted shoes as they pounded into the pavement behind him...

He remembered the running...running....running..and then this. The here...the now. _Alone._

**A/N #1:** I wanted to take a moment and thank all my reviewers thus far. I really appreciate your feedback. It encourages me to continue writing. I try to thank each and every reviewer personally, but if you review without an account I unfortunately can't, so here is MY thank you and Caf-Pows to you all!! (With a Jimmy shaped straw of course!) (Ah... mental images...I love my brain!)

**A/N #2:** Chapter title is again lyrics from Brain Adams song: "Never let go".


	4. Chapter 4

**_Disclaimer:_****_I am neither lucky, powerful, rich, or influential enough to own NCIS. If I did I certainly wouldn't be sitting around fantasying about it. (Ha! Who am I kidding, I still would!) But regardless, everything and everyone belongs to their respective studio's, corporations, and companies. (God damnit!) And thus, I own nothing but my rabid plot bunnies and hopeless dreams, thank you very much!_**

**Authors Note #1:** I must confess that I am especially looking for feedback on this chapter as it takes a whole other direction then the preseeding ones. It has always been my intention to do the story this way, but regardless I am slightly nervous. So, please tell me what you think.

**Warnings:** Violence, a bit of gore and language. (This will continue to apply for basically all the chapters. Spoilers: Anything up to the end of season six is fair game in my opinion. But nothing hugely specific other then for Season Five episode: "About Face." The famed 'Jimmy' episode.

**Authors Note #2:** Unlike in a Zoo, please feel free to feed the author! Your reviews not only give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, but they also help me improve myself. Not to mention this is my first forray into NCIS fanfiction. So yes, please read and review.

**It's a Rough Road****to Heroism**

_**Chapter Four - "When burning bridges won't come down. Like symphonies without a sound. I spend these nights counting stars....And wonder if there's hope for me out there..."**_

_**...Meanwhile, across town...**_

He woke slowly, tasting stale coffee and sawdust on his tongue. The mix of the rough and smooth grains of the wood grazing the back of his head told him what he already knew; he had fallen asleep on top of the boat. _Again._ Shifting slightly he moved his spine from out of the gapping space between the unfinished wood boards, wriggling a bit until he found a comfortable position once again.

Minutely his ears picked up the subtle sounds all around him. The creak of the wooden boat below him, the slightest groaning shift of the house as it settled above him, and the quiet _glush..glush..._ of the neighbours sprinklers.

.....'_Sprinkers...must be coming on to 0200.' _He thought distantly.

But for once he made no move to get up, knowing that he should probably get his ass up and into a real bed before his back started aching again, but instead, he ignored common sense and stubbornly stayed where he was, slipping easily back into that blissful state between sleep an wakefulness.

This case was a rough one, and not hard in any of the conventional ways either..it didn't involve some flamboyant psychopath going after children, or an egotistical mass murderer methodically selecting victim after victim. _No_ this one was hard because it _should_ have been so god damn simple to solve. _But it wasn't._

It was a threat to their serving men and women and they had nothing! The few facts they did have were sparse at best, their other information being more conjecture and speculation then anything.

They were almost certain it was the work of some sort of group or gang. The attacks had far too many of the similar calling cards that gang organizations played when on a hit then for these attacks to be the work of an independent mass killer. _A fact that only made their jobs that much harder._

So, they knew it was a gang.... _But _w_hich gang, they did not know. _Dinozzo and the local gang unit were all currently focusing on a strong theory that the murders were likely the work of a fledging chapter of some well established, American-based gang looking to grow roots in the city and garner respect and street credibility from the rival street gangs that were already established here.

Dinozzi himself was certain that if it was a gang based operation, that these murders were essentially an innovative initiation technique, having seen similar gang related crimes during his time in Baltimore. But at the same time, he did not discount the fact that it could even be some sort of central based attack on the institutions of military authority. He had agreed. There were just too many variables in this case for them to discount anything at this point.

They were nearly drowning in forensic evidence, with boot impressions, the odd smattering of the attacker's blood, hair fibres, and finger prints. Hell, they even had a honest to god patch of spit that they were able to collect off one of the victims uniforms, likely from where one of the bastards had paused to spit on them. And yet, despite all this evidence they had _**squat**__._ There was only one certainty, only one out of the dozens of theories that were being brought up in the bull pen every day, they had solid, forensic evidence that the six consecutive murders that had been carried out thus far had been the work of dozens, if not more perpetrators. They were working in groups, not uncommon tactic for gang hits.

But despite all this evidence, every single DNA sample, finger print, bullet fragment, shell casing, and honest to god scrap of fabric that had been collected yielded them nothing. There were no matches in AFIS, or any other data base for that matter. Not one fingerprint had a match, not one yielded them a name. _Not one. _

It had gotten to the point that Abby had even retested every single sample countless times, despondently thinking that in her words: "there had to be something wrong with _'her babies'_ because they weren't talking." Scientifically, and even logically Abby was stupefied that in hundreds of samples, not one had yielded her even a breadcrumb. None of these bastards were in the system!

_'You would think that the little shits would have had rap sheets as long as their mean streaks.'_ He had thought in vicious frustration after yet another fruitless trip to Abby's lab, having found that the lack of music in her rooms was almost as oppressive as the lack of results.

Abby kept insisting that the case was full of, as she called it 'bad energy, bad mojo', and as the weeks dragged on, and more bodies were wheeled downstairs, he found he was starting to partially agree with her.

_Something about this case just didn't add up, and it wasn't just the lack of leads and solid facts either, it was something else.. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something deeper going on. And he knew it this time. He just didn't think it, or hope against at hope that he might just be getting a bit too paranoid in his middle age. No, this time he knew it. The feeling was nearly tangible, like he could almost smell it, and taste it in the air. A hint of something that was there, just out of his reach..._

But even the strongest and most foreboding of gut feelings couldn't magically make the evidence they needed appear, so instead, they were left with only what they _did_ have, a mountain of useless evidence and an office full of short tempers and building migraines.

All they were left with was six dead Marines with absolutely no connecting factors between them, other then the fact that they were all Marines. Each one had been beaten or shot to death, and all were missing their dog tags. Each victim was different from the one that had proceeded it, yet never was the next person startlingly unique either. They didn't look the same, or have the same gender or hair color; they didn't go to the same bars, have the same assignments, live in the same barracks, have the same CEO, the same habits or even take a piss in the same god damn bathroom. In fact, by all accounts, it was likely that none of the six victims had even passed each other on the street. _They had nothing!_

And as if that wasn't enough, other then the fact that they were convinced it was a street gang they had been unable to come up with little else then that. Usually a gang would at the very least subtly brag of their kills, or hype themselves amongst their peers and gang family. _But not this time..._

All the locally known gangs were remaining strangely closed-lipped about the murders. Vehemently denying their gangs involvement when NCIS and the gang units had brought them in for questioning. They didn't trash talk, gloat, or make even the slightly allusion to knowing anything more about it then they did. They were reluctant to even _mention_ the news reports.

Even a probie knows it's a bad sign when a senior, tough as balls gang member of the La Vida Mala nearly pisses themselves in ingratiation when grilled for information about the killings. He had never seen the like, the La Vida Mala, so cocky, and self assured were now running _scared and uncertain_. They were intimidated by this spectre of a gang, one that for all intents and purposes didn't even _exist_.

It was as if all bets were off, with the last hand played and now they were all poised, tensely waiting for the final hand to strike... _He didn't like it. Something more was off here, he just didn't know what. _**Yet.**

Everyone was feeling the strain, tensions were running high, stress and anger were simmering much closer to the surface, and he knew it wasn't just him. He saw it in every tight, over-focused face at the office. He saw it in his team in the deeply-knitted lines on McGee's forehead as he poured over surveillance data until his eyes lost focus. It was reflected back at him in the quiet tension of Ziva's limbs and dangerous darkening glint in her sable eyes as she followed his every move.

He been on hand to witness it in the sizable dent Tony had left in his locker, the anger and frustration suddenly boiling over, gaining momentum and power like an overflowing kettle as it jets out the steam and spray in angry fits of noise.

He had only just turned the corner into the room, looking for the man in question when the echoing crack of the younger mans fist slamming against the metal wall echoed throughout the empty locker room. The lack of suspects and strong leads rendering Tony unable to do anything but vent his frustrations on the unsuspecting metal. Honestly, he had remembered thinking as he had watched the man breathing, taking short, frustrated breaths as he rested his forehead against the cool metal, he had been surprised that it hadn't happened sooner. Dinozzo was too much like himself in a lot of ways, they were the last vestiges of a dying breed in the force nowadays. A fact he was reminded of every day.

_He had understood that anger. _The sheer frustration and rage as the identity of the murders slipped through their fingers tips again and again.

_After all, Tony didn't have a boat._.

He saw it too in the growing silence of the forensics labs, Abby's garbage overflowing with Caf Pow containers until they had been stacked into each other in lopsided castles that rose out of the bin, tilting crazily in all directions.

It was in the frowning grimace, that would now stray across Ducky's face as he kneeled down beside the latest victim, before shaking his head in grim frustration he leaned down to whisper reassuringly into their unhearing ears, his touch softer, and manner much more subdued.

Hell, he had even walked in on Palmer the night before last as the young man was putting the latest victim, a striking female Sergeant to bed, closing the door on her with the utmost care before slumping up against the stainless steel door, uncharacteristically slipping his glasses off as he ran a hand up his face and into his hair, ruffling the thick curls as he blew out a frustrated breath. The kid stayed like that for a few long minutes before turning to eye the six occupied cold cupboards, each containing a victim of a crime that seemed nearly impossible to solve.

_There seemed to be no end in sight. And it was only a matter of time now before Palmer would have to prep another table, and write up another identification card for the next victims temporary home..._

His gut churned constantly now, perpetually roiling and chewing at his insides untill he was so constantly alert that he could have sworn that his very bone's hummed, vibrating with barely contained energy. Poised for action..on edge for the click that comes the second before the grenade goes off in your face...

_Something was coming. Something big, something bad. He just knew it, knew it like he had known the very second he had seen Ari on that camera feed, grinning condescendingly up at them, that that was the face of killer. And kill he had, taking one of his own, leaving him with only an empty desk and a cold grave to visit._

He knew it wasn't going to be long before something snapped. The case was poised to break, they were right on the edge of something...right at the point were that last piece of earth that signals the cliffs ending, with the freedom of openly space beckoning. And it was either going to consume them all, or bring justice to those families, friends, and comrades that had lost a loved one due to this nightmare of a case.

_He needed to end this case before the case ended them..._

Even half-asleep, these thoughts made his body twitch, causing restless fingers to travel over the rough wooden surface of the boat, nails digging into the smoothly sanded wood at his side as if fighting for a hand-hold..._A grip._

_Fighting for the one simple piece that would fit into all the fragmented facts and half-certain assumptions and form a lead. All he needed was one hint, one whisper of information and he knew he could bring them down.. _He just needed on -....

The sudden sensation of his cell vibrating against the wooden hull of his boat brought him back to full awareness, his eyes snapping open almost immediately, unfocusedly following the insistently buzzing phone as it vibrated dangerously close to the coal box, the glowing red embers reflecting brightly off the chrome finish.

Pulling himself upright, he slid gracefully down the hulls sloping side as he ran a tired hand across face, displacing his silver hair as he crushed his palms into his lids, scrubbing the last vestiges on sleep from his eyes. It wasn't until he had settled himself, tugging at his sweat shirt's collar as he did so, that he finally answered the phone.

But whatever preconceptions he might have had before answering were blown out of the water as his intense stare suddenly sharpened, so wholly focused on the words of the caller that he didn't even register the sound of the neighbours sprinklers gradually slowing to a stop, the noise of the early morning crickets rushing to fill the silence.

He knew it was the director before the other man had even opened his mouth, hearing that small, tell-a-tale noise that the toothpick made as it switched from one corner of his mouth to the other.

"Gibbs, we have a break in the case. We have a survivor, a junior Gunnery Sergeant found twenty minutes ago by a homeless guy down near the abandoned industry quarter off Head road, along side the docks. He should be at Bethesda now." He said in way of greeting, voice even and smooth, as if he hadn't likely just been woken up himself by the call.

_This was it. The break they had been looking for. The missing clue, the wild card. It had finally appeared. The assholes had finally gotten sloppy. _

"Condition?" He barked, already clipping on his gun holster and snagging his jacket from the railing as he double-timed it up the stairs.

"He is unconscious for now. The paramedic's stabilized him and they have him now in intensive care. Once the crew found out he was a Marine they put in the call." He replied, the sound of the toothpick scratching across the receiver audible even as the door slammed shut behind him as he made his way to the car.

"How do we know this was intended to be our seventh victim?" He questioned roughly, not bothering to quell his cynicism, unwilling to set his hopes too high, only too end up with nothing, like so many times before in this case.

"Well, for one thing.." Vance began, the tilt in his voice betraying his tightly wound enthusiasm. "He woke up half way to the hospital, grabbed one the EM's by the collar and managed to get out the words: 'NCIS, news reports, attackers, and gang tattoos' before he lost consciousness again. Nearly gave the two in the back a heart attack" He finished, amusement creeping into his tone as he spoke.

"Do we have anything else?" He demanded as he tossed himself carelessly into the drivers seat, the springs eliciting a small, but distressed squeal at the abrupt movement.

"That's what you and your team are going to find out. He may be our only link to these killers and I want you there now. This might be our only break." He replied determinedly.

"And Gibbs?" The director paused, the mans tone causing him to pause with the keys half turned in the ignition.

"You bring me those bastards." He ordered, the finality in his words for once in tune with his own mirroring their mutual frustration and anger.

The echoing slap of his cell phone flipping closed was the only answer either of them needed to hear as he slammed the car into drive and blew out of the driveway, screeching down the road and around the corner in less then twenty seconds flat, the sound of his screaming tires momentarily rendering even the most resilient of crickets absolutely silent.

**A/N #1:** I wanted to take a moment and thank all my reviewers thus far. I really appreciate your feedback. It encourages me to continue writing. I try to thank each and every reviewer personally, but if you review without an account I unfortunately can't, so here is MY thank you and Caf-Pows to you all!! (With a Jimmy shaped straw of course!) (Ah... mental images...I love my brain!)

**A/N #2:** Chapter title is lyrics from Thriving Ivory's song: "Runaway." I totally encourage you to listen to it! They are an awesome band and I really believe that this passage describes Gibbs state of mind in this chapter! Tell me if you like the song if you listen to it!

**A/N #3:** Just in case anyone has forgotten, the La Vida Mala gang made it's appearance in the NCIS episode: "Iced." (Remember the one where McGee proved his 'manilyness' and Gibb looked amused?) I figured it was best to work with what had already been put down as a basis in the canon of the show rather then create another gang. (Which doesn't really work out in real life, so they do it in fiction? Hah!)


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: I am neither lucky, powerful, rich, or influential enough to own NCIS. If I did I certainly wouldn't be sitting around fantasying about it. (Ha! Who am I kidding, I totally still would!) But regardless, everything and everyone belongs to their respective studio's, corporations, and companies. And thus, I own nothing but my rabid plot bunnies and hopeless dreams, thank you very much!**_

**Authors Note #1:** This has been one of those plot bunnies that has basically eaten my brain for close to three weeks. Sitting in the back corner of my mind and absolutely nagging to be told. Something that is really quite distracting when you are right in the middle of trying to finish a few other fics I might add.

**Warnings:** Violence, a bit of gore and language. Spoilers: Anything up to the end of season six is fair game in my opinion. But nothing hugely specific other then for Season Five episode: "About Face" the famed 'Jimmy' episode.

**Authors Note #2:** Unlike in a Zoo, please feel free to feed the author! Your reviews not only give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, but they also help me improve myself. Not to mention this is my first foray into NCIS fan fiction. So yes, please read and review.

**It's a Rough Road****to Heroism**

_**Chapter Five -**_

"_**Don't tell me if I'm dying, cause I don't wanna know. If I can't see the sun, then maybe I should go... Don't wake me cause I'm dreaming, of angels on the moon...  
Where everyone you know, never leaves too soon.."**_

He floated through the confusing swell of his own thoughts, trying to ignore the growing numbness in his limbs as he weakly tried to force them to move, encouraging his battered circulatory system to continue flowing as his fingers seemed to buzz and pulse, existing in a perpetual state of pins and needles.

Random snatches of memory were brushing along the shadowed edges of his mind, shedding light, for the briefest of moments, on a confused jumble of images and chaotic bursts of sound before it retreated into the darkness again..

_It was like watching fractured bits of a grainy, shakily film movie.. One that seemed to lag behind, as though there was a pause between the actions and the sounds, with the noises and words themselves nearly muted, echoing metallically in his confused ears. He had seen B-Movies with Tony that were light years better then this.._

Understanding was sliding through him like water streaming from a sieve, he couldn't understand it, and he couldn't retain it. He couldn't hold on to the images that he knew he had lost. His head was too jumbled, too lanced through with pain and the growing feeling of that bone-deep chill that iced into his flesh. His mind too stupid with what he knew had to be a pretty significant amount of blood loss by this point to respond to his half-hearted attempts to remember.

Instead, he let the random swathes of memory and conversation slide through him, remembering things that he hadn't thought of for weeks or even longer, things that seemed to simply swim through his muddled brain, surfacing from the heady stream in a garbled current of sound, smell, picture, and impression.

**....**

_The day after his run in with Milo_ _Suskavcevic, he had gotten up and dragged himself to the campus gym, conscientiously ignoring the fact that it was a Saturday and he was actually at school, as he signed up for kick-boxing and a few of the other self-defence classes that the gym offered. Vowing never again to feel as helpless as he had felt when he had stared down the barrel of that gun. __**Twice**__. _

_He had always thought that if he could even be half as good, half as talented, and as brave as the others then, well then **that** would be worth something. Maybe then, instead of running after the insane man with the big gun, with no thought on his mind other then stopping him, that now he might actually know what to do with the person if he DID catch them._

_Either way, he figured that at least he hadn't frozen.. That was something. At least he had tried.. Even if running after an armed criminal hadn't exactly been the genius move of the year._

_So he had entered into each new class with some trepidation, but strong enthusiasm, and by the end of his first month, he realized that despite his initial misgivings, (likely fostered by the embarrassingly easy way Ziva had repeatedly incapacitated him during the case in question), he found that he had come to enjoy himself, delighting in the way that he steadily improved as each new lesson passed. _

_He had always remained in good shape, but now he found new confidence in the way that he actually had an idea about what to do with his own personal strength and stamina. He felt accomplished at his budding skills and growing self confidence, feeling a strange bolt of satisfaction as the horrifying images that had skulked in the backdrop of his dreams for many weeks, that of the empty-eyed, hooded-man firing at him as he made to climb over the railing, gradually faded, eventually slipping away from his nightly terrors to take residence in that small, unconscious corner of his brain that still housed his childhood nightmares and primitive fears. Becoming nothing more then a bad memory.._

_And after a month had gone by he had almost completely stopped thinking about it. It wasn't in his nature to dwell much on the past; he figured that the present was more then enough for him to worry about, thank you very much!_

_He had also come to find that he enjoyed the physical activity of the classes themselves. And while he often came home with just as many bruises and aches as he gave his sparring partners, he always secretly revelled in the feeling of progress. Even if it did hurt like a son of a bitch._

_Though that one time with the black eye had been a hard one to explain.... _

_For some reason he hadn't told anybody about the lessons, feeling the strange desire to keep his new fascination with self defence personal. He still wasn't exactly sure why. Maybe it was because he was doing it solely for himself and no one else and didn't want to make it seem like a big deal? Or maybe he just wanted to do something like this on his own, something so very different from anything he had ever done before?_

_But regardless of his lack of a believable explanation for his admittedly impressive shiner, he suspected that out of all of them, at least Ziva knew anyway. Having quickly fixed him with her usual impenetrable dark-eyed stare, the moment he had sauntered off the elevator, a slightly sheepish look spreading across his face as the nearest man had whistled in relative sympathy._

_Leave it to an NCIS agent to truly understand the impact of an injury, even if it was just a black eye... A black eye that felt like it had been the result of getting hit by a Mac truck...but that was neither here nor there.._

_He had been surprised, and somewhat touched to see concern flickering momentarily across her features as she openly observed him from under the half-veiled fan of her dark eyes lashes, her concern only melting away when she had finished taking him in. Her eyes flickering over the darkening ring of angry purple skin, gradually skipping down to take in his scrub-covered torso, watching the careful way in which he held himself, until her lips had curved upwards in a small smile, inclining her head toward him in what he could only surmise was an expression of approval._

_If he hadn't known any better he would have thought the Israeli woman was almost...proud... It was hard to tell with Ziva sometimes. _

_She had said nothing when she and Tony had arrived in autopsy just in time to witness him haltingly telling Dr. Mallard that he had run into a door. She graciously didn't call him on it, letting him keep his secrets. _

_Predictably the older coroner had been less then impressed, insisting on giving him a through eye exam as he had admonished him about paying more attention to his surroundings, digging through his aged medical bag with one hand at the same time his other was delicately probing the vicious looking bruise, searching for orbital bone damage._

_There might have also been a rambling story about him and some of his colleagues falling into a Vietnamese pit-trap while they were in the Medical corps together. But he couldn't be entirely sure, having been too busy trying to keep from laughing aloud as Tony and Ziva took the opportunity of Doctor Mallard's distraction to engage in a strange, all out version of a nudge war behind the exam tables. _

_The entire fiasco had predictably ended in the usual heart-stopping fashion, with Gibbs walking in just as Ziva finally lost her cool and nearly body-checked Tony across half the span of the room, the movement spawning an effective, if not petulant retaliation from Tony as he grabbed her by the scruff of her shirt collar and nearly dragged her down with him, the pair of them thudding audibly into one of the stainless steel sinks before either of them had even noticed that the silver haired man was standing behind them._

_He had gotten all the expected comments as he had arrived for work that the day. The well meant teasing and humorous jabs he had joked right back at... Hell, it HAD been kinda funny! And besides, it had been nice to have Abby and the office girls spoil him rotten all day along. They had all seemed dead set on believing that he had barely escaped from some sort of mythical fight of good versus evil, or something ridiculous like that, rather then believing his door frame story. And by the time they had finished with him they had him nearly believing it too!_

_Though he supposed that they were all just extra jumpy due to the case. He had been something close to home, something physical that they could all latch onto and try to make better, something that they could feel that they were making a difference in... Where as in the case, all they had was a growing collection of victims and no leads. They had nothing and it was running everyone ragged, especially_ _Gibbs' team._

_However he had been more thrown off by Agent Gibbs' reaction then any of the others scolding and friendly teasing. _

_'Is there anything you need to tell me Palmer?" He asked gruffly, catching him alone and off guard in the main elevator as he made his way up from autopsy a few days after it had happened, somewhat self-pityingly thinking of all the homework that awaited him back at his flat._

_His black eye had faded by then into more of a smudged grey shadow, making him look more like he had been the subject of a practical joke rather then the victim of his instructors misjudged, if not equally as impressive backhand. _

_But the man hadn't been looking at his face, instead he had been looking down, taking in the reddened scrapes, and slightly bruised skin of his knuckles, the abrasions only just peeking out from underneath his long jacket cuffs, neatly hidden from view. Or so he had thought anyway._

_It wasn't as if he was really hiding them...more like choosing not to call them to attention. He had thought at the time. Even to him his tone had sounded a bit too defensive. He wasn't sure why, but now, as he was caught under the older mans stare, the whole situation seemed absolutely mortifying._

_But regardless of that he had swallowed audibly. The man seemed impossibly huge in the small space, fixing him with his commanding stare, one that immediately made him feel guilty. Despite the fact that he had done nothing wrong. It was the kind of look that demanded the truth, and warned against bullshit all wrapped into one single patented stare._

_And for a few crazy moments, under that intense and piercing stare, he had felt quite a lot like a very guilty child. _

_Inwardly cursing the previous night's self-defence lesson, the first day they had begun practising without their protective gloves and gear, he steeled himself and met the man's eyes. He could only imagine how it must look, what the senior agent might be thinking.._

"_No sir." He had finally replied, deliberately keeping his reply as simple as the man's question had been, absurdly pleased and more then a little grateful to note that his voice didn't stutter or falter as he spoke._

_If it was even possible, the older man's stare intensified, sweeping up his face to meet his eyes, and staring at him until he apparently had seen something that had confirmed his answer. _

_God only knew what it was._

_Because after a moment he simply turned away, giving him the slightest of nods as he uttered a barely discernable growl of: "good," before raising his coffee back to his lips and taking a long, measured sip. _

_But the silent offer had echoed strongly in his ears, the actual words had remained unsaid, but the offer and the meaning behind it was just as clearly expressed as if the man had spoken the words to him aloud._

_And as the man had stalked out from the elevator without so much as a backward glance when they reached the next floor, he hadn't been able to completely to repress the secretly pleased smile that had spread across his face, watching with a small grin as the senior field agent cut across the room out of sight, leaving a few of the newer, and more skittish agents holding their breath as he blew past._

_**.....**_

He came back to the present abruptly, not fully understanding what had roused him, eventually realizing that he was still blearily looking down at his freshly split and bloodied hands.

His eyes were just barely in focus when he felt it again, _rain..._

Falling like the slow, pulsating beat of his heart, the rain splattered across his face in tiny tremors of muted feeling, running down his upturned face as he watched the black, cloud-ridden sky broil and churn above him. _It looked like it was going to storm._

The rain made him think of his mother...

Whenever it rained like this his mum would always stare out the kitchen window and watch, sometimes for even a half an hour or more He had never really wondered why until he was in his early teens, and had asked her then, his voice tinged with a teenagers usual haughty bravo and questioning sarcasm, just why she always did so.

And he had never forgotten her response. She had turned from the window with a slow smile, a large mug of steaming tea cradled in her hands, seemingly unperturbed by his adolescent cynicism.

"_My mother used to always tell me that when it rains like this, somewhere an angel is crying. And she said that no one should ever have to cry alone."_ She had responded simply, her voice uncharacteristically thick as she had brushed arms with him companionably before turning back to watching the rain-streaked glass, the water streaming down the pane like tears.

After that he had never really given the whole incident much thought, putting it down as a one of those unique '_mother_' things that only really made sense to the whole mysterious female gender.

That is, until years later, during the first big rainfall of fall and the beginning of his first serious year of medical school. Because soon after he had moved into his first apartment, and the rain had begun streaming down the window, he had found himself standing in front of the sliding glass patio door, a cup of strong coffee in his hand, doing the exact same thing.

_...His mother..._ She would be worried; he had forgotten to email her yesterday. With all the busyness of the case and his upcoming exam everything else had taken the back burner in his thoughts, and the email or call back to her had been temporarily forgotten...

For some reason the thought alone filled him with guilt. She had just sent him a care package filled with home cooked baking and few covertly placed twenty dollar bills, each peeking out happily from amongst the sea of zip-locked bags and canned soups. And he hadn't even had a chance to thank her for them yet. He had put it off when all she had really wanted would have been a quick phone call..

_Stupid..._

And now all he could do was sit there, consumed in his own thoughts, hopes, and regrets, shadowed by a series of memories that his mind refused to unveil, masking the events in between the beginning of that alleyway and the angry, violent shouts, all the way to the bloody, painful reality of now.

_'Please...' _He whispered feverently, the words slowly trailing to a stop as he suddenly realized that he was uncertain of how, or even of whom he was supposed to be imploring. He had never really been a very religious person, his mother had believed, but had never fostered, or forced her own religion upon him, content and open minded enough to let him choose his own way.

However he had always been uncertain, never being able to fully understand what had created her strong faith. And how she could so strongly and believe in something that could not be seen or even touched.

'_How could one rely on such a thing? Believe in something that wasn't physical or solid, something that remained elusive and largely unknown?' _He had always wondered, feeling somehow as though he were missing something, as though he was trying to put a jig-saw puzzle together with only half of the pieces.

_And now, at this very moment, in these few and precious seconds, minutes...stuffed amidst the reeking city waste, and pressed up against the dank and sludge-covered pavement, his torso a fiery maw of screaming pain, he had to wonder who one could turn to if they didn't really believe?_

_Was there really such a person?...Or even such a thing?..._

But then he suddenly remembered, nearly trembling with the realization as he sucked in an unsteady breath, giving himself a moment to simply let it wash over him, feeling for all the world as though he had just been doused in a soothing burst of summer warmth in the dead cold of winter.

_Them_, he could rely on _them. _The team, his friends. _He was not alone. _It was them that he could see, hear, touch, and trust. It was them that had saved him once before. It was them who time and time again proved not only that they could be counted on, but that they cared. He could rely on them; rely on that small, faint little flutter of hope that had just alighted in his breast.

He could count on _them..._

_**A/N:**_ _**Chapter title from Thriving Ivory's song: "Angels on the Moon".**_

_**A/N:**_ _**Special thanks to Eclipse whose last review came at the best of times, as I fretted over the last chapter.**_


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